


A View from the Mountains: Studying Abroad - Chapter Three.Three

by Maple_Tartan



Series: A View from the Mountains: Tales of the Avvar [6]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Andrastian, Avvar, F/M, Gen, Legends, Lore - Freeform, scholars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-23
Updated: 2017-04-23
Packaged: 2018-10-23 03:25:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10711194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maple_Tartan/pseuds/Maple_Tartan
Summary: Professor of the University of Orlais, Bram Kenric, takes a stroll through Redcliffe on his way returning to the Frostback Mountains.Note: Though set after the third chapter, all the "Three.(number)" chapters are not necessary to the plot. However, I feel that their stories add depth and world building to future events.





	A View from the Mountains: Studying Abroad - Chapter Three.Three

While the orange glow of the setting sun settled over Redcliffe, a professor of Orlais made his way along the market bordering the port. This Orlesian intellectual found himself in foreign territory, gathering preparations to travel to an even more strange land. While he perused the variety of belt buckles, a figure in the distance grabbed his eye.

At another stall, casually flipping through books, was an extraordinarily tall man draped in animal furs. His long pasty arms were covered in tribal tattoos, distinctly Avvar. While he made his way to the stranger, he inspected his appearance. His hair was pitch black and short, cut close to the scalp. His flesh was adorned in battle scars, burns, and all that goes with a harsh life.

“Um, hello. You would not be Avvar by any chance?” asked the scholar, tapping the giant on the shoulder. The strangers piercing grey eyes sent a shiver down the professor’s spine.

“Depends on who is asking.” said the man, with a gentle smile.

“Bram Kenric, professor of Orlais. My interest is -”

“I’ve heard of you. Didn’t you travel with the Inquisition to discover more of the original Inquisitor?”

“Why, yes! You see, while I was there I met the Avvar of Stone-Bear Hold. I was wondering, if you are Avvar, if you could lend me some aid on finding my way back to their hold?”

“Stone-Bear Hold has been destroyed,” Bram looked back, eyes wide, “It was scorched under Anora, during her incursion into the Frostbacks.”

“Did any survive?”

“Few, they now reside with Wyvern-Flame Hold, in which I am augur.” said the Avvar, turning to face the professor, revealing his staff. Bram stood motionless for a moment before swiftly rummaging through his bag. “Now why is it you asked if I was an Avvar?”

“I am wondering if you were returning to your hold and if so, may I come along?” asked the professor, slinging his bag back over his shoulder while holding parchment along with a quill and ink.

“I am returning to the hold so you may travel with me, I am heading off now.” said the Avvar, paying the shopkeeper for a thin tome and tucking it within a satchel. “I am Rankys Crown-Slayer.”

“A legend-mark? How did you earn this?”

“For slaying Queen Anora of Ferelden.”

“That was you! For what I’ve been told, I expected to meet you with giant horns and blood dripping from your fangs.”

“As any proper Orlesian would describe me.”

“Seeing as your people are at peace with your neighbours, how has the worship of Hakkon changed? From my time in the Basin, Hakkon had much importance to your culture.” said Bram Kenric, ready to write as they walked from Redcliffe to the mountains.

“There is peace between the Holds and the lowlanders, though many lesser tribes have denied this. They continue to shed battle-tears with the border towns and our holds. Our young find them good to sharpen their blades. Along with them, there are always high lords with private armies, wanting to tear us down from our heights. Other lords often hire us to clear out bandit strongholds. Easier to risk the lives of foreign youngsters clawing for a chance to prove themselves to the gods than gamble the lives of soldiers with political ties.”

“Fascinating, what of worship of the spirit of Hakkon?”

“Our traditions have not changed from before his rebirth, although his strength has wholly returned.”

As the two walked together in the night, discussing ancient lore and history, glowing yellow eyes followed their every move. They came upon a part of the road that was hugged by hills on both sides. Once they were between the two mounds, they heard savage growls, and they stopped. An immense black wolf appeared at the front of the path, blocking their way forward. Looking behind them, two more wolves appeared. They were now trapped on the path, with other wolves on the hillsides, looking down upon them.

“Oh Maker.” whispered Bram Kenric.

The two wolves at the back charged and leapt forward, ready to sink their teeth into these humans. Rankys swung his staff from his back to over his head, creating a wave of thick ice. Midair, the wolves slammed into the ice while the wolves above them could no longer descend upon them. Shifting into a massive bear, barely fitting under the sheet of ice he made, Rankys launched himself at the remaining wolf. The wolf stood no chance, being torn to shreds within seconds. The others fled, losing hope in the hunt after seeing their leader destroyed.

“Sometimes, your meals come to you.” said Rankys, wiping blood from his lips.

“That was...marvellous.” said Bram, clutching his notes to his chest.

The two travellers set camp on one of the hills overlooking the camp. While Rankys placed wards about the camp, Bram tended the wolf stew being made, adding some Orlesian spices he had in his pack. On return, they both sad on the same log, enjoying the just slightly flavoured meal.

“What is it you are reading?” asked Bram, seeing Rankys flip through the book he bought in the market with one hand, bowl in the other.

“A book of Fereldan folklore, our skalds sometimes need inspiration.”

“Folklore? I have never heard any Avvarian stories.”

“I can share if you’d like.”

“Oh, please.” said Kenric, preparing his notes once again.

Rankys slurped down the last of his supper. “Remember, I am no skald. You may wish to wait ‘till we reach the hold before all that.”

In response, Kenric closed his notes, having his finger keep his place.

“At the crown of Thedas lives a great beast, the Wulver. This creature is the size of an average man, but with the head of a snarling wolf and its body covered in thick brown fur, blending into the forest as the Sun sets. It is said to enjoy an isolated life, hiding away from all contact, spending the time fishing. The Wulver is said to only be seen away from his lakeside home spreading good. On one occasion, it was said to have smote down one who betrayed the gods, rilling his own to bring pain on us. More frequently, many preach of the Wulver helping them in their time of need, perhaps guiding them when lost in the wilderness or leaving fish on the windowsill of the desperate.”

“Is the Wulver based on a benevolent werewolf perhaps?”

“The beast is different from a werewolf, as it was never human. Personally, I believe Wulver to be a god, one whose duty it is to protect the weak from the harsh. Now, it is for you to tell me a Cirian tale.” said Rankys, smiling out the corner of his mouth while leaning on his staff.

“Of those before Orlais became an Empire? Their culture has faded as to only be occasionally in fringe Orlesian art. Rather, I will provide you with a story my mother once told me, a tale of Starkhaven.

Long ago, a wolf, larger than any you have ever seen, terrorised the city. For a time, all it did was run the game scarce, but then it turned its feral jaws on human flesh. Soon, everyone would run scared at the site of any wolf, believing them all to be a member of his massive pack. With all this panic, the city was rendered under siege by these beasts. On this occasion, Sister Francine, left the city alone, against all protest. She let the city gates close behind her, ready to meet the pack of hundreds of wolves before her, while the people watched from the ramparts. The alpha approached her first, and leapt upon her defenceless self, swiftly followed by the remaining hoard. It is said she was torn, limb from limb, as she disappeared from view beneath the sea of black. However, when those started to leave the ramparts, suddenly the wolves stopped. Now, they all faced the alpha, who now stood on his hind legs, eyes closed. Before him rose Sister Francine, now with the wolves at her beck and call. She walked them into the city’s walls, said to be basked in the Maker’s glow. She then told the people that they must each take care of a wolf each, for this shall keep the beasts tame and have them never turn against man again. And thus it was so. Sister Francine swiftly became the Grand Cleric and most hounds out of Starkhaven are said to have descended from this once terrorising horde.”

“That’s quite the legend.” said Rankys, rapidly blinking his dry eyes as the night drags on.

“There is some truth to the myth, there was a Grand Cleric by the name of Francine, the rest is up to the listener to decypher. Perhaps it is allegory to love all the Maker’s creations.”

“To know you are watched over and to respect the world’s creations, not bad lessons to spread to the younglings.”

The two shared a knowing glance as they drifted to sleep, laying open to the night sky.

Bram Kenric woke the next morning to the sun blazing down upon him, his hat, which he had worn over his eyes, toppled next to him. Meanwhile, Rankys was sound asleep, cowl covering his eyes. The scholar leant on his side and opened his notes, scrawling down the tale the Avvar had told him the night before. After this, he stood and crept to the sleeping giant. He wrapped his hand around the base of the man’s staff, which was laying in the grass, over his palm. The seemingly simple wooden stick felt oddly heavy, as if it was rather a sledgehammer than staff. Once his left the mage’s hand, it lost its weight, feeling as it should. Sitting on the log across from Rankys, Kenric sketched the staff, taking notes on its details. Meanwhile, Rankys squinted at him through his blurry vision.

“Admiring fine ancient Avvar craftsmanship?” he asked, now sitting cross-legged on the ground. He raised his arms in a great stretch, hearing his spine cracking, reminding him of his age.

“It is lovely.” replied Kenric, putting away his pen.

“I can explain its story to you as we make our way to the hold.” said Rankys, picking his staff from the professor’s lap. As soon as it was touched, he felt its weight pressing down on him. The two picked up their belongings and continued their journey.

“The grip you see here is based on Tyrdda Bright-Axe’s staff, the rosewood twisting down its length. When the remains of my clan had left our hold, our augur fashioned this top bit of knotted wood on top. Not only does it allow access magic to pool there for between spells, but it was to remind us of where we came from. Through time, the staff was passed down from mage to mage until the clan was attacked and I made off with it.” said Rankys, twisting the staff around as he pointed to its separate parts.

“Are all Avvar staves made from different woods?”

“It differs from hold to hold, as do most things. For example, most anything coming out of Stone Hold is made of stone.”

The two continued to talk magic and varying cultures within the Avvar when they eventually reached Flame-Wyvern Hold.

“Welcome home, augur!” called down a sentry from the stone palisade of the hold as the gates swung open. Before them stood Tom, arms wide.

“Good to have you back, we’ve missed your presence, as always.” he said, winking before hugging his old friend. “You bring company or diner?”

The scholar’s eyes opened wide in shock, while Tom expelled a deep belly laugh.

“This here, is Bram Kenric, a professor from the University of Orlais. He will be living in our Hold for some time, guest-rights and all.” said Rankys, patting Kenric on the back as they walked into the hold.

The first stop on the day’s tour would be the market, a circle in the centre of the hold, lined with stalls. Most of what was available for trade were practical items, such as hides and meat. Kenric mentally compared the grey world surrounding him with the colourful pavilions of Val Royeaux.

“We ought to get the little man some proper furs when the weather turns.” said Tom, smiling. Both Avvar standing much taller than the professor.

“If our biggest concerns are his wardrobes, we’ll have bigger problems on our hands.” said Rankys.

Kenric looked down at his tunic, frowning. He thought he looked rather nice, while the Avvar believed him pompous. Following his guides, he made his way into the temple. The hall was lined with large animistic shrines, each distinct from the other. Other than shrines, the temple held the hold’s elders, one standing from the silent bunch to greet the newcomers.

“The gods have been anxious for your return.” she said, hunched over.

“Oh, I am not so old.” said Rankys, to the weary smile of the elder.

“And who is this?” she asked, peeking from beneath her hood at Kenric. Her skin was stone grey, scarred, and burned. She seemed older than the ground beneath them.

“Bram Kenric, some curious lowlander.” replied Tom, condescendingly.

“Don’t discount every lowlander who wanders about, greatness comes in many forms. Look around you, a hold of refugees, making good by our peace.”

“Thank you.” replied Kenric to the elder, kneeling before her.

“How polite, we ought to have you shown to the young ones. Remember, you are welcome anytime in the temple. Now you lot run along, the tavern is always ready for you lot when the sun sets.” said the elder, the glowing sun shining through the hut’s window.

Saying their farewells, the three of them left the temple and visited the thane’s hall.

“This is where all the business gets done.” said Tom, holding the flap to the cave open for the others.

“No thanks to you. We’re lucky Sam and Leitis agree more often than not.” replied Rankys, glaring at his old friend, ending in a grin.

“Is it normal to have three thanes?” asked Kenric.

“No. We were gifted this land after the war with Ferelden and founded this hold. Rather than splitting ourselves into three or four holds, we believed it better to build tall rather than wide. Less holds, more tribes living together.” answered Rankys.

“What of your succession?”

“The three of us will probably nominate a successor, if he has a challenger, then either blood is spilt or votes counted. We sacrificed having our own holds to be a symbol of unity, what would it be if the four people who sewn our federation together also tore it apart? Perhaps we squabble and is at times inefficient but in the end, it is worth every moment.” said Tom.

“Aw, under all the jokes and scars, you’re a man of symbolism.” said Rankys, wrapping his arm around Tom and roughhousing him.

“Yeah, yeah, big throne with a big head.” he said, shoving away from his friend and falling into his throne, the centre one of three. All of them were made of stone and covered in runes, their only differences being the animal heads adorned upon them and size. Following the thane’s hall, they walked to the augur’s hut.

“The gods always cram to see lowlanders.” said Rankys, summoning the hold’s guardians as they entered the round building. Tom and Kenric silently stared into the blue fire pit in the centre of the hut together, looking deep into the many skulls and various herbs. The scholar’s gaze slowly scanned the room, seeing the massive chandelier made of stag skulls and the other religious trinkets, and of course the spirits. Of varying colours, shapes, and demeanours they approached him, silent.

“Let the poor man breathe.” said Rankys, and the spirits backed off.

“Don’t worry, you’ll all get your own chapters.” said Kenric, to the spirit crowd, who simply stared back at him and disappeared.

“This is where our friend spends most of his days. And, the ladies love the night sky and blue flame.” said Tom, looking through the hut’s open roof at the starry night above.

“No matter if I bar the doors.” said Rankys, sitting on one of the many benches facing the fire.

“Now, we have shown you most of the important places about the hold, except for one. The creme of the crop, the finest steel in the land. The tavern!” shouted Tom, snatching the professor, throwing him over his shoulder and charging to the tavern. Rankys sighed and followed the cries for help.

Tom charged through the hold and burst into the tavern, chucking Kenric into a sit by a table with two other Avvar. The people at the table burst into laughter as he adjusted his cap and sat up straight.

“Meet Sam and Leitis, the other thanes of our hold.” said Rankys, arriving moments after Tom.

“And you must be the lowlander we’ve heard so little about.” said Leitis, tilting her chair back as she drank from her mug.

“I am, my name is Bram Kenric.”

“So, how do we compare to the lowlands.” asked Sam, already familiar with why the man was here.

“You are certainly different, with nothing resembling a proper city like Minrathous or even Val Royeaux.” said Kenric, clearly unhappy with being flung about and now glaring at Tom, who was leaning against the bar. After a few moments of silence, the tavern exploded in hysterics.

“You managed to find a lowlander with some balls!” shouted Sam, thumping Rankys on the back. The laughter subsided and Rankys returned from the bar with Sam and Tom, two steins in tow.

“Thank you.” said Kenric, sipping at his drink, wincing at the drink’s awful taste and strength. “Fullna Hethsdotten?”

The woman playing in the corner paused her tune and looked at the traveller. “Bram Kenric!”

The two ran to each other and hugged.

“I didn’t recognise you! It is so loud and… oh my it has been so long!” said Fullna, tightly embracing the man.

“You two know each other?” asked Tom, now seated with his legs up.

“Yes, he would spend his nights asking my about our lore when he visited Stone-Bear Hold.” she said, looking into her old friend’s ageing face.

“Your words made for good anecdotes!” They both laughed. “I used to tease her, only calling her Hethsdotten for not having a legend-mark.”

“Well, it’s Fullna Forge-Bliss now.” she said, triumphantly.

“Really! Where did this come from?” asked Kenric, walking back to the table with the skald.

“When Stone-Bear Hold was put to the torch and many of us were on the run, I would sing to keep our spirits up. In the war with Ferelden, the only heat we had at night were the forges, so I would spend my night’s their, huddled around the fire, spinning tales for the others.” she said, with a faint smile.

“Thus Forge-Bliss. Oh, I’m so proud of you!” he exclaimed, leaning over and giving her another hug. Others at the table raised their mugs to her achievement.

“How long do you plan on staying?” asked Fullna, excited.

“Oh, we’ll see.” said Bram Kenric, with a sly smile.

!!! end paragraph 1

In the years to come, Bram Kenric lived the rough life of an Avvar, spending his days tending to the harvest and his night’s either in the tavern or writing. Wanting to gather information on all the Avvar, he would accompany Rankys on his journeys to other holds, even though the frequency of these visits diminished as the augur became more of a home body. On the publication of his massive tome, many dismissed his research, as they had his last work on the Inquisition. His words on shapeshifting barbarians were openly condemned by the Circles and the College of Enchanters alike. However, its notoriety invited many readers, curious about the culture that seemed to be just sprouting. While the vast majority of commoners were illiterate, the message was spread by travelling scholars and well-meaning Chantry sisters. Despite its criticisms, the book found its audience and with every word, illuminated the unknown to a slowly forging alliance. 


End file.
